EVE®: Templar One (20 page)

I was sick to my stomach.
Every one of us, those in Falek’s inner circle, wore implants; just about all capsuleers did.
Short of physically extracting the devices and examining them, nothing would appear out of the ordinary in routine scans—and even then, I was sure it would be difficult to determine what was out of place.

“To Falek’s credit, the entire operation was flawless,” Grious continued.
“Worthy even of Jove efficiency.
But that hardly matters now.”

There was no one to lash out against.
Falek was dead.
And if Grious was telling the truth, Sarum was innocent of this.

I had to find a way to leave this place.

“What is it about the EVE Gate that protects me from her?”
I asked.

“Tachyon bursts emitted by the EVE Gate interfere with quantum entanglement,” Grious answered.
“It is a most unusual phenomenon.
Your data archives show records of these emissions originating from the gate’s unique singularity; we are equally puzzled by them.
This happens nowhere else in the cluster.
We suspect they interfere with wave function collapse, thus disrupting the entangled components of your implants, but we have yet to prove it.
There are limits to even what we know, Marcus.”

“I don’t believe you,” I growled.
“You would have to know.”

“I’m afraid I do not,” Grious said.
“But you are a relentless scientist.
Understanding the EVE Gate is not your goal.
What you really desire is to know how the mind of Empress Jamyl was corrupted.”

“No,” I fumed, banging my fist against a lifeless instrument panel.
“I’ll rip these implants out of my skull.
She won’t be able to do a damn thing about that!”

“Wrong,” Grious answered.
“As I said, Falek was a thorough man.
The implant cannot be removed without killing you, and your drones won’t permit you to harm yourself.”

“You can help me remove them,” I pleaded.
“You’ve already disabled my drones.
Just restore the medical bay and take them out yourself!”

“I will do no such thing, Doctor.
There are many billions of souls who have a keen interest in seeing those implants stay right where they are.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“Why, Doctor, the Sleepers should have told you by now.”

21

PLACID REGION—VIRIETTE CONSTELLATION

VEY SYSTEM—PLANET III: MER NOIRE

ASTRAL MINING TERRAFORMING COLONY: CAMP STOCKTON

SOVEREIGNTY OF THE GALLENTE FEDERATION

Seventy Years Ago

Jacus Roden stared at the disassembled engine cowling, convinced that the biggest mistake of his young life was coming to Mer Noire.
Parts and tools lay strewn all over the hangar, and much to his disgust, a few empty spirits bottles as well.
The hired help—a motley crew of local Intakis with average mechanical skills at best—had left more than an hour ago, unable to fix the disabled shuttle.
Its battered carcass hung from hydraulic lifts that ran from the floor to the retractable roof above and represented what was probably the last business his fledgling company would ever get.

His greatest frustration was that he knew exactly what the problem was and how to fix it.
There was structural damage to the ion turbofans—acute deformations that suggested the pilot had flown through a debris cloud, which was certainly consistent with the nicks and scratches everywhere else on the dilapidated craft.
The delicate sensors embedded within the intakes that monitored airflow had been mashed to bits.
Replacing them, and reconnecting the new sensors with the primary flight computer, was straightforward but difficult.

Unfortunately, he lacked the funds to purchase any of the parts, let alone rent the equipment needed to install them.
The owner of this Banshee-class shuttle refused to pay anything up front, and with this being the latest in a string of contractual failures, his line of credit—with his finances and reputation—had reached its end.

Raised on a terraforming colony on Aporulie IV, Jacus was born with an entrepreneurial spirit, and was always eager to leave his family for brighter horizons.
Few could blame him; this was a period of unprecedented growth for the Gallente Federation, which actively encouraged ambitious souls like Jacus to settle new worlds.
With countless opportunities throughout the cluster, a strong Navy for protection, and enough government-issued credit to support start-up ventures, the chance to embark on a journey toward riches and adventure was an intoxicating prospect.

But sometimes the destination differs from expectations, no matter how much hope there was when the journey began.

Jacus grabbed a wrench and heaved it toward the shuttle in anger.
But the emotional release backfired horribly, as he felt sharp, tearing pain in his shoulder.
The tool clanged to the ground well short of its intended target.

Humiliated, he cursed loudly.

It was then, just when he began to accept defeat, that he heard a violent series of crashes outside the shop.
Jacus suspected a speeder accident; it wasn’t uncommon for colonists to race them through the long, perfectly straight alleyways of the industrial settlement.
Pulling a respirator around his face, he ventured through the light air lock and into the thin, cold air of Mer Noire.

He was right.
The speeder had come to rest on its side against the outer walls of the hangar.
Whoever was inside would be pinned down between the structure’s exosteel and the energy-absorbing crash foam of the interior.

With a throbbing shoulder, Jacus hurried back inside and jumped into the shop’s only MTAC—an old two-armed cargo rig retrofitted with a cutting winch for working the underside of dropships.

Opening the hangar door, Jacus marched the vehicle out on the street and used its tripedal arms to clasp the disabled speeder.
As soon as the top of the vehicle spun around, Jacus heard a sharp
pop
and was blinded; a burst of sparks stung into his face.
As he instinctively raised his arms, the MTAC’s actuators barely mimicked his actions in time, as more rounds slammed into them; Jacus realized he was being shot at by someone inside the vehicle.

Panicking, he attempted to sidestep and turn the rickety machine around.
But the move overwhelmed the old gyroscopes, and it toppled over in a heap.
Jacus screamed in agony; the impact drove his injured shoulder hard into the steel roll bars.
He thought for certain that this was how his life would end.

But the kill shot never came.
In fact, all he could hear was wheezing now, as the speeder victim began asphyxiating.
It took a minute for Jacus to get the machine back onto its feet.
Sirens screamed.
The colony’s security forces had mobilized.

For reasons he didn’t understand, Jacus knew he had to get the wreck off the street and out of sight.

The victim had passed out; he would be dead in just a few minutes.
Working with just one arm, Jacus grabbed him by the shirt collar and pushed him back into the driver’s seat, pulling a respirator over his face.
Then he took the gun and shoved it into his own pocket.

It was then when he noticed the cache of drugs sticking out of the crash foam.
Perfectly arranged pills, cylinders, vials, a silver nozzle injector, and an inhaler engraved with the Serpentis cartel logo.
Even the suitcase looked like it was worth a fortune.

The sirens were getting louder.

Wincing, he pulled himself back into the MTAC.
With excruciating effort, he marched the machine up to the speeder and used its powerful arms to lift the wreck up.
Bits of mangled junk fell from its underside, but the passenger remained steady.

The hangar door had barely closed when the first of three Federation police cruisers roared past the shop.
Jacus wondered if anyone noticed the debris field and dent in the wall.

Setting the wreck down, he used the robotic arm to pull the limp body of his assailant onto the hangar floor.
The man was breathing good air now but remained unconscious.

The shuttle with the disassembled engine had a large cargo bay.
The wreckage would fit neatly inside of it.

Once that task was done, Jacus returned to his victim.
There was an old cot inside the office.
It would do nicely for the “patient.”

Jacus immobilized him with canvas straps and sat down with the gun in hand, shaking violently and fighting the urge to vomit.

*   *   *

THE PATIENT WOKE UP
an hour later.

He was older, bald, with cropped gray hair on the sides of his head.
He was immaculately dressed, wearing stylish business attire that clearly marked him as an offworlder.

Physically, he was also much more formidable than Jacus.

“Why the restraints?”
he asked, with a thick Intaki accent.

“You tried to kill me,” Jacus answered.

“My sincerest apologies,” he answered.
“I thought you were a Federation officer.”

“How do you know I’m not?”

“Feds have more sophisticated ways of securing prisoners,” he said, eyeing the crude restraints on his wrists.
“Assuming that’s what you think I am now.”

“Given the circumstances,” Jacus said, bringing the gun into view.
“I’d say the police are the least of your problems.”

The Intaki smiled broadly.

“Clearly,” he said.
“So what will you do now?”

His smirk implied he was certain that Jacus didn’t know the answer to that.
On that count, he would be right.

“We’re off to a bad start,” he continued.
“My name is Savant.
And you are—?”

“I saw your stash of drugs,” Jacus said.
“Bit much for casual consumption.”

“Yes, I was on my way to fill orders for clients, but was … sidetracked.”

“I should turn you in.”

“Yes, you probably should.
Except you haven’t, and probably won’t.
That makes you guilty of—”

“Conspiracy and tampering with evidence.”

“Yes,” Savant said.
“So then the question is, why did you do it?”

Jacus said nothing, barely aware that he was strumming his finger over the gun.

“I see,” Savant mused, smiling pleasantly, taking in his surroundings.
“It’s rather late.
Are you the proprietor here?”

“Colonies are ruined because of thugs like you,” Jacus said.

Savant looked as though he were insulted by the comment.

“But you hardly even know me,” he said.

“Drugs ruin people,” Jacus said, starting to lose his patience.
“You’re with Serpentis, aren’t you?”

“Drugs have been part of our culture for thousands of years,” Savant replied, his eyes wandering around.
“The Intaki wouldn’t have survived without them.
You know, this shop is using very dated equipment—”

“That’s an interesting take on history,” Jacus said, struggling to contain his anger.
“You think it’s worth all the misery it causes?”

“Drugs have made me a wealthy man,” Savant answered.
“But that’s secondary to the high I get from helping people.”

“Oh, right,” Jacus sneered.
“Helping people what—become addicts?”

“No,” Savant said, becoming serious.
“Helping them cope.
Numbing the pain of a difficult life.”

“By giving them a chemical dependency?
You hypocrite.”

Savant looked at him thoughtfully.

“If a man loses a limb, you replace that limb with something artificial.
If the loss of a child tears the soul out of a parent, you use chemicals to lift him until he finds the strength to carry on.
Both are tragic ‘dependencies,’ and yet they serve the same noble purpose—to compensate for a debilitating limitation.”

He looked around some more, frowning as though he didn’t like what he saw.

“So how has business been?”

Jacus shook his head.

“Doctors determine what’s noble, not you.”

“Actually, I prefer the term
physician.
”

“You’re a physician?
Right.”

“Clearly, you’ve been institutionalized by Federation propaganda to think we’re all ‘thugs’.
You’d be surprised how many of us practice legally.
We’re not the evil empire you think we are.”

Savant paused again, sniffing like something foul was in the air.

“If you don’t mind my saying, I get the impression this shop isn’t doing well at all—”

“That isn’t your concern,” Jacus growled.

“I’ll make it my concern, if you’ll allow,” Savant answered, jutting his chin toward the straps on his wrists.
“It’s the least I can do in return for all the goodwill you’ve shown to me.”

Jacus almost laughed.
In truth, he had no idea what to do next.

“Whatever you’re up to, I don’t want any part of it,” Jacus said.
“But you’re right.
It’s not going the way I hoped it would here.”

Savant smiled.

“You didn’t think building a life here would be easy, did you?”
he said.
“I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“Jacus Roden.”

“Pleased to meet you, Jacus.
Thank you for saving my life.
What’s the name of your enterprise?”

“Roden Shipyards.”

“Ah.
Has a certain ring to it, I’ll admit.
In exchange for your kindness, and as compensation for shooting at you, I have two offers: three hundred thousand credits for shop upgrades and parts inventory, and a steady stream of new business.”

Jacus nearly let his jaw drop.
It was an astronomical figure.
But he wasn’t stupid.